


The Man Who Lives Forever

by ipsilateral



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Gen, some gore, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26342938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ipsilateral/pseuds/ipsilateral
Summary: "We'll be starting the Immersion Module today," Daisy continues. "It's designed to help Commission agents free themselves from any emotional ties that might jeopardize a mission. You'll be trained to have control at all times.""What, are you going to make me shoot a bunch of ASPCA animals?" Five asks, obediently letting himself be handled this way and that by instinct. Pliancy was learned by all of them early on when Dad first hooked them up to similar machines.-- a glimpse into Commission training
Comments: 5
Kudos: 64





	The Man Who Lives Forever

**Author's Note:**

> The way Five acted super neutral and even-keeled even after seeing his family for the first time in like 50 years got me thinking about ways that could've happened...and then this ended up almost resembling a mashup with Inception... I'm not sure if 'major character death' counts if it's not real, but I tagged it just in case.

After a third incident involving a staff member, Five's exaggerated startle response, and whatever blunt object was within reach, the Handler moves his training to off-hours when the building is mostly empty. Pitch black nights at Commission HQ are eerie compared to a post-apocalyptic sky that never fully darkened, but at least it's peaceful, void of any noise or light pollution or other people. 

As agreed upon, he dutifully watches instructional reels, reads stacks and stacks of how-to guides and policy books, listens to language lessons, and trains with weaponry ranging from 15th century katanas to Soviet rifles from WWII. The Handler shows up on occasion to run him through an obstacle course or training exercise herself, ostensibly to monitor progress, but he suspects that some part of her wouldn't mind seeing him killed either. 

In sum, all of it is a strange echo of life at the Academy, including the overhanging _hey we actually might die now_ mood. Half the time he expects to look up and see the back of Klaus's head, curls growing out over his shirt collar, and Luther's outstretched foot in his periphery; or the tiny 4-paned window he'd always zone out staring at; or even Dad hovering over him, waiting expectantly, on the cusp of saying those four goddamn words: _I told you so_. 

*

Daisy, the mini-Handler, leads him down the stairs and into the basement level that's much more utilitarian compared to the upper floors. They follow alongside pipes lining the ceiling, eventually ending up in a small room with a setup that doesn't seem very assuring: twin bed in the corner covered in crisp white sheets, a one-way mirror, and a workstation with jumbles of instruments and wires all connected to a slim brown briefcase.

"Alright, Five," Daisy says, pulling up a chair. She whips out her clipboard to scribble something and Five can't help but flinch, already halfway to grabbing it and chopping her in the throat before his mind catches up and fires off some stop signals. "You've been doing very well. The Handler is _so_ pleased. Though I suppose you had a head start, what with your childhood and all."

"I'm so pleased that she's pleased," Five says with his fake smile. He sits on the bed before she can ask him to do so, but he's not prepared for two men to come in and silently start sticking all kinds of electrodes onto his head and spine. 

"We'll be starting the Immersion Module today," Daisy continues. "It's designed to help Commission agents free themselves from any emotional ties that might jeopardize a mission. You'll be trained to have control at all times."

"What, are you going to make me shoot a bunch of ASPCA animals?" Five asks, obediently letting himself be handled this way and that by instinct. Pliancy was learned by all of them early on when Dad first hooked them up to similar machines. "Or make me choose between my mark and saving a bus full of drowning children? Because I can already compartmentalize."

"We're aware of that, and yes, it has made our jobs much easier. Some of the others just have too many hang-ups to continue on."

The men have wired him up to the point that he feels like a Christmas tree strung with yards of tinsel. "We're in agreement then. So what the hell is all this?" 

He looks at Daisy. She has angled blonde eyebrows and green eyes that crinkle at the corners. A moment later his amygdala spasms, unable to appropriately process human interaction or anything with life behind the eyes, and he has to look away again. 

Daisy smiles sympathetically, like she knows exactly what happened. "Go ahead and lie down. I'll start you off with an introductory session." 

After a second, Five obeys without protest. Might as well, since he's come this far. He tries not to think about how he's been telling himself that for a long, long time.

*

> " -- not gonna let you do that," someone says. 
> 
> Five is sitting on a Chesterfield with one small, unscarred hand curled over the back edge, watching two teenagers argue. They're in some kind of huge room that's a cross between a medieval library and a hunting lodge. Almost everything in it is in neutral shades of brown, exactly like -- 
> 
> He blinks. 
> 
> "Nope. No way," Luther continues. 
> 
> Luther, with a trail of pimples dotting along his jawline, and Diego next to him with his skin in a similar state, saying, "How am I supposed to get better without some high stakes every once in a while?" 
> 
> "Go cry to Mom."
> 
> "Hey. Five," Diego complains, making eye contact. "Can you talk to this asshole about helping me -- "
> 
> "He wants me to help him by acting as target practice with my face," Luther interrupts. "Next thing you know, I've lost an eye in an 'accident'." This said with exaggerated air quotes. 
> 
> "Dude, if I followed through with every urge I've had to stab your eye out, you would've been blind by the time we were three."
> 
> They continue arguing at the same volume but Five still sits, frozen, until the scene starts to go blurry and all he can see are smears of light and dark, like ink blots in water. At first he assumes it's because the memory is fading out, but then he opens his eyes to the pockmarked white ceiling of the basement again and finds that his face is wet with tears.

*

"I don't want to talk about it," he says to Dolores later that night. She gives him a sympathetic look. 

The real Dolores had stayed behind, so he's made do with sketching out a similar face on the bathroom mirror with a tube of lipstick pilfered from the Handler's purse. Bringing her along had been seriously considered, but in the end Five didn't have the heart to have her be witness to yet another layer of himself being peeled away and replaced with something foreign and hard. 

"They looked so real. I mean, Jesus, we made eye contact," he mumbles to himself as he squeezes out some toothpaste and starts brushing. "It must be some kind of memory time-jump...a time-jump into my own head? God knows what they're going to dredge up in there."

"You know, the worst part is that goddamn Daisy writing everything down. That means the Handler knows, and that means this'll take even longer."

He stares at himself through the negative spaces of Dolores's hot-pink outline. "You're right. Drop in the bucket at this point," he says thickly. He pats his stomach pudge. "Though I'm not getting any younger." 

Spit. Rinse. Spit. For about the fiftieth time since arriving, he leans in with his forearms on the counter and marvels at the concept of running water. "It could've been so simple, Dolores," he says absently. 

After a minute, he straightens up and turns the faucet off. "Well. Better gird my loins for tomorrow. You look beautiful as ever, by the way."

"Yes, I know you're not a fan of 'Pretty in Pink', but that was the color she was wearing that day, alright? We don't have much room to be choosy here," he snips before flipping the lightswitch and leaving.

Ten seconds later, he pokes his head back past the doorframe to apologize. "I'll see you in the evening," he tells her. 

The Commission has provided a rather spartan room reminiscent of a Scandinavian prison, with a full-size bed and a plain balsa wood desk set and depressingly low-pile carpet. The Handler showed him in on the first day with much clucking and tsk-ing at the lack of decor, as if Five still had standards. Right now the row of eastern facing windows are beginning to alight with sun, but Commission-installed blackout curtains slowly roll down and encase the room in shadows as he gets into bed. They're really pulling out all the stops here, fattening him up for slaughter. Like with the faucet, he runs his hands over the comforter just to marvel at the feeling before closing his eyes.

Living on his own for so long had eventually carved out a desperate, irrational side to him, one that took on a few odd ritualistic superstitions over the years. One was keeping to a strict 3:1 ratio on right turns vs left turns. Another was that he wasn't allowed to teleport anytime between 14:57 and 15:02. And every evening, he loudly orated all the moral lessons he'd learned so far, on the off-chance that some omnipotent cosmic being would take pity and whisk him back home. Like in all those old time-y movies where the shitty main character repented and their guardian angel let them do everything over again. 

Since that omnipotent cosmic being actually turned out to just be a bleached blonde pain in his ass, he's let most of these superstitions go, but the bedtime ritual has apparently been etched in too deep. 

"Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus," he recites quietly, wiggling his toes with each syllable. "Ben, Vanya, Pogo, Mom. Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus. Ben, Vanya, Pogo, Mom." 

He repeats it over and over until sleep finally comes.

*

> Griddy's. The cornermost table where they always sat, dragging over two more chairs to squeeze them all in -- only two, because Klaus always shared with someone else. Vanya and Five are by the windows, Luther at the end, all their faces looking sickly in the shitty lighting. Klaus has his blazer wrapped up and piled on his head in a makeshift turban, batting at the sleeve that keeps working its way loose. Everyone else has also made attempts to modify their uniforms except for Five and Luther.
> 
> "What'd yours say?" Klaus asks him.
> 
> "My what?" 
> 
> Klaus's foot butts up into Five's personal space even though he's sitting a chair and a half away. He had started his growth spurt first and kept unfurling his limbs like party horns to hit everyone else from a distance. "Your _evaluation_ ," he sighs.
> 
> "Oh. Right. Same thing as always," Five grouses on autopilot, letting the memory take over. 
> 
> He remembers this now, creeping out of his room to get Vanya and jumping them both out into the alley where the rest of them were already waiting. It was after one of the formal tête-à-têtes with Dad that numbers 1-6 would have every quarter as a progress evaluation. Purely theatrical, and the only redeeming factor of these meetings was that the litany of personal criticisms didn't happen in front of an audience for once. 
> 
> "Hubristic and impatient," he quotes. "Yields his unhoned genius as a blunt caveman club instead of polishing it into a fine weapon."
> 
> Allison purses her lips. "Huh…"
> 
> "I know he's not wrong," Five says with an eyeroll. Diego, who's staring blankly at the table while chewing as slow as a cow, raises his eyebrows as if to say _duh_.
> 
> "But also, fuck that guy?" Ben suggests. 
> 
> "I guess there's a backhanded compliment in there," Allison muses. 
> 
> Five shrugs, unmoved. "Whatever." 
> 
> Vanya has been staring out the window, as Five also often did during these outings, but now she looks at him with a sad smile, like she knows something he doesn't. Back then, when his empathy reserves were limited, that expression would make him angry sometimes -- he'd want to shake her, yell at her to stand up for herself. Other times it made him feel far removed and distant, as if observing her from behind a glass. 
> 
> "Y'know, I'd be way more willing to work on myself if Mom was the one delivering these sweet, loving comments," Diego says, cleaning his fingernails with a toothpick. He glares around the table when they all laugh at him.
> 
> "You're lucky you don't have to go through these, Vanya," Luther tells her in his usual bumbling manner, almost obscured by a stack of empty white plates. Allison, in the middle of biting into a jelly-filled donut, nods. 
> 
> "I spent most of mine staring at this weird flyaway he had going on," Ben redirects. He presses the back of his hand to his forehead and flutters glaze-covered fingers.
> 
> "Oh god, that thing was a tragedy," Klaus agrees. "But seriously, if I hear him mourn my potential one more fucking time, I'm gonna throw myself out the window." 
> 
> "Wouldn't be the first time," Diego mutters just as Allison asks, "Again?"
> 
> "Okay, no, that time I fell by accident," Klaus corrects, wagging a finger in both their faces. Per Klaus's story, he was drunk, sitting on the windowsill and conducting along to Mahler with a little too much vigor. "I fell and you knew that."
> 
> "Equally as stupid," Five says. "You could have died."
> 
> "Ah, but I didn't. I knew all those sacrifices to the dumpster gods would pay off one day," Klaus says dreamily. "It was perfectly placed. Felt like falling onto a bed of pillows." 
> 
> "Too bad it wasn't full of bricks," Five says, and yelps when Klaus punches him in the shoulder, and then he wakes up. 

*

There's heat prickling behind his eyes but he knows his expression is neutral when he asks, "What's the point of making me relive this?" 

"Calibration," Daisy reassures. "I need to map out some baseline brainwaves. We're almost finished."

When Five doesn't answer, Daisy clears her throat. "Five. Just as a warning. These sessions will get more unpleasant."

Obviously. Five stares at the ceiling. Why are the tiles perforated, he wonders; now there's a question he hadn't thought to look up before. Probably to do with soundwaves. Then again, he's learned that sometimes it's nice not knowing something and just wondering about it, although he's never been good at that.

"Five?"

"I heard you. You can't actually see into the memories, can you?"

"I can only track the brainwaves," she confirms. 

The crick in his neck is there again, as well as the lower back ache that doesn't seem to go away anymore. Both sensations are highlighted after sojourning back to an unbroken 13-year-old body. He wiggles around, irritated. 

"Alright. We can keep going." 

*

> The Academy foyer this time. Allison, Luther, and Klaus are sitting huddled together at the bottom of the staircase, crying softly, while Diego leans against a pillar looking both angry and lost. Vanya is standing next to Five with her arm snaked through his. He can see over the top of her head, which is an unfamiliar view; on second glance, they look older than the previous memory.
> 
> He doesn't remember this at all.
> 
> "What happened?" he asks. "Where's Ben?"
> 
> Four tear-streaked faces look at him. "What do you mean?" Vanya asks shakily.
> 
> "He's dissociating," Diego says in monotone.
> 
> "I'm asking a question," Five snaps. 
> 
> "Fine, he's being an emotionally stunted asshole, surprise surprise," Diego amends. He's flipping a butterfly knife around in his hand like he's some kind of badass. 
> 
> Irrational rage blooms through Five. The real, adult part of him is just a distant observer, no match for the volatility of his younger self, even in this imaginary setting. He teleports over to Diego and slaps the knife out of his hand, then chokes when Diego jams the web of his other hand against Five's windpipe. 
> 
> "Hey," Luther starts as he stands up, but it's Pogo's voice admonishing, "Boys!", that makes Diego reluctantly uncurl his fingers from around Five's throat. 
> 
> "Are we all finished?" Pogo asks disapprovingly. He waits a beat. "Then, it's time. Master Ben is ready for you all."
> 
> Belatedly, Five notices that they're all wearing black. "Is Ben …," he starts, but trails off as everyone else stands and starts shuffling outside. Pogo has left the door open and he can see that it's still snowing, muted and peaceful. 
> 
> "Wait," he calls after them, but only Luther turns. 
> 
> "Five," he sighs. "Come on. He's waiting for us."

*

"Is it masochistic if part of me wants to go back to a fake memory?" he says to a freshly outlined Bedroom Dolores, drawn onto the wall by the headboard. He sees her upside down under his arm as he tries to lean over and stretch out his lower back. 

"You can call it that, but I think I deserve to be a little self-indulgent." 

Ever since he first read Vanya's book, he's imagined Ben's death countless times, even creating probability distributions as to how it could've happened whenever he got tired of working on the equations to get him back home. That specific chapter was read and reread over decades until the paper became worn and soft and the vagueness nearly drove him insane. The actual event, the funeral, the aftermath -- he had no idea about any of it. 

"Oh Jesus, please don't. You know how I feel about platitudes, even sarcastically."

He comes out of the stretch and lies down on his side to face her. "It'll get interesting, that's for sure," he agrees. Dolores appears to be concerned in a grim way, which means she's not very concerned at all. The only time she's been truly nervous was when he'd lost track of their water supply after a bad sandstorm. 

"No, no, that one was real. Griddy's was that donut shop, remember? The one we always snuck out to." 

"Well there wasn't much else around. If we went too far and something happened, I'd be the only one who had a chance of getting back in time."

"I don't know," he answers absently. "I hope so. Although why we even went as long as we did is a mystery."

Which is the truth. Nights out at Griddy's always ended in at least three of them in a fight and everyone regretted it the next day when they were struggling not to doze off listening to lessons like _Advanced Communications in Morse Code_. But once in a while, without warning, there were nights when all of it aligned; when, for some explicable reason, everything seemed to come together and they felt okay. Happy, even. Like a flock of birds swooping up in perfect concert for a single brief moment before fluttering apart again. Maybe that's what they were chasing all that time.

*

> He's younger again, in some kind of empty industrial warehouse with high ceilings and windows fogged opaque and yellow with age. The only other thing in there is a grown man lying on the ground, curled in on himself. 
> 
> "Diego -- ?" 
> 
> Five takes a hesitant step forward. Another second passes before he suddenly understands that Diego's in pain. A river of red oozes from his abdomen, slow and insidious, and something with a strange sheen seems to be pulsing in the middle of it all. Organs, Five realizes. Intestines. 
> 
> "No," he hears himself say. "No, I'm not doing this." 
> 
> There's no one else in sight. "I'm not doing this!" Five yells. Underneath the echoes, he hears Diego mumbling his name as he screams. 

*

The scent of perfume announces her presence as soon as Five comes to. He doesn't bother sitting up and instead just turns his head to look at the Handler, who's posed in the other chair and smiling. 

"Remarkable progress so far, Five, really. I try not to take pride in my work but you're making that very difficult," she says, pulling off her gloves one finger at a time.

He ignores her. "I was wondering how you'd get around to it. Are all of you guys sociopaths or what?" 

"Come, now. You know this isn't personal. We at the Commission simply understand the bigger picture. That the ends justify the means. Daisy was very gracious to pull you out early," she adds.

"There was a malfunctioning lead," Daisy says hurriedly. She seems to know that wasn't meant to be a compliment and busies herself with leaning over to peel a patch off his forehead.

The Handler ignores her. "Oh Five, don't be angry. Think of it this way: how do people overcome allergies?"

"Desensitization," Five answers after a pause. Picturing himself smashing her face with a brick makes him feel marginally better. 

"Precisely," she confirms, touching her nose. "And you need multiple exposures for the process to work."

Logic has always been glaringly clear to him, whether he wanted it to be or not, and logically, a desensitization process makes sense for Commission training. It really is the most effective option available. She knows it, he knows it, and she knows he knows it, though odds are they arrived at this conclusion via two wildly different paths. The important part is that it's the right answer; he doesn't have to like it, but that's a battle he's been fighting his entire life anyway.

"The only way out is through," the Handler says. Daisy has finished fussing over him and returns to her seat behind the desk.

Five closes his eyes. 

*

> Same warehouse, same injury. He runs and falls numbly onto his bony knees, touching Diego all over almost as a compulsion. Up close, the wound is a shredded maw, alive in its own way.
> 
> Diego blinks at him. "Five."
> 
> "Yeah, it's me," Five says, stilling. He studies Diego's face for the first time. "God. You're all grown up."
> 
> "And you're not. What the hell happened to you?" Diego coughs out a laugh and grimaces. "Shit. I need -- "
> 
> "What do you need? What can I," Five hitches out. "What can I do, Diego?"
> 
> "You're supposed to be. Telling me," Diego huffs unevenly. When he tries to smile, his teeth are glossy and stained with red. 
> 
> The wound is too messy to staunch the bleeding but still, he balls up his jacket and tries. Hollow point bullet, probably, or some unique combination of injuries cooked up by Commission programmers. Gross anatomy was part of Academy schooling, of course, but it all escapes him now. Neat chalkboard drawings of splanchnic circulation would be impossible to reconcile with the viscera under his hands anyway.
> 
> "Wait, just -- wait, okay? Hold on," Five says, pressing down uselessly. "Diego, just wait, alright?"
> 
> Even in a simulation, he can't look directly at Diego for long. Instead he focuses on the angry knot of a scar bisecting his eyebrow, the skin there still freshly pink and raised like a tree root skimming out of the ground. Five thinks about the ways it could've happened. Knife? Perhaps, if it was a dull one. Or he could've fallen onto the corner of a coffee table, or been pistol-whipped at an odd angle. Caught on some heavy duty barbed wire. Maybe it was more mundane, like a car accident, an unbalanced book falling from a shelf. 
> 
> A dozen more possibilities flip through his head before he realizes that Diego has stilled. 

*

The Handler is standing by the desk, studying whatever's being scribbled onto the paper feed by the electrodes. Before she can say anything, he tells Daisy, "Run it again."

*

> "Jesus fucking Christ," Diego groans, dropping his head back into Five's lap. 
> 
> "Hey," Five says. "You're okay, I'm here." He cradles Diego's head carefully. "I'm here." 
> 
> Diego grabs his wrist and looks up at him. "This is bad."
> 
> "Yes," Five confirms, meeting his eyes. 
> 
> "This is really fucking bad."
> 
> "Yes," Five says again. "It's really fucking bad."
> 
> "You know why I like you?" Diego asks, already sounding a little fuzzy. "Because you never bother with that fake reassurance crap." 
> 
> "Not my strength," Five agrees. "But you're okay." 
> 
> "Bullshit. What did I just say." Diego coughs. His voice is low and staticky. "I gotta be honest, man. I know it's bad because you're being so gentle about it."
> 
> "I'm," Five starts but Diego cuts in, mumbles, "Hey, no. It doesn't matter. You're here."
> 
> The palms of his hands are getting clammy on Diego's cheeks. He wants to ask, _is this how it went with Ben? Was it quick? Was it messy? Were any of you there?_ "Yeah, I'm here," he says instead. "I'll be here."
> 
> Diego stays clutching Five's wrist. His breath starts rattling soon after. Five stares straight ahead at the calcifying white of the windows for at least two minutes until Diego finally goes quiet. The dumb bastard never did know when to give up. 

*

He looks at Daisy. "Again."

*

> This time he kneels beside Diego and forces himself to take in the blood soaking through all the layers of black, including the wool trench coat. 
> 
> "Five," Diego sighs. 
> 
> "Diego," Five responds, finally looking away from the wound. He fingers the coat lapel and asks, "Is it blitzkrieg time already?"
> 
> Diego barks out a laugh but immediately clutches his stomach again. "Fuck," he breathes, teetering on the edge of panic. "Don't. I can't."
> 
> "Diego, look at me," Five orders. "It's going to be okay. Alright?" 
> 
> Diego is almost hyperventilating now but he nods easily, like he trusts him. When Five slips his hand into the coat, he finds the tiny lightweight knife that Diego always used to keep with him as an emergency backup. _I call her Matilda_. 
> 
> The wound is gaping wide enough that it only takes a little bit of maneuvering for Five to get his hand in; the sensation is that of a warm glove. He thinks about nothing as he touches his thumb against the thrumming aorta. 
> 
> "You're going to be okay," he says again, and cuts it clean through. 

*

The edge of the tub is starting to dig into his ass, but he can't bring himself to move. There's a weird kind of comfort in the cold sterility of the bathroom even though it's way too bright and still kind of smells like vomit. Plus he's probably going to be compelled to wash his hands again in another few minutes. He's not good company tonight, had said as much to Dolores when he got back. Other than that, it's been mostly silent. 

"I suppose overall it went as expected," he says out loud. 

Dolores is giving him her usual stare, the one that says that she sees right through him. He touches his chest, affronted. "What, you don't believe me?"

"Alright, fine," he relents. "Fine, you're right. I just wish -- " He scrubs a hand over his face, tries to snap himself out of it. "I really wish there was a goddamn bar here."

A low level panicky hum flickers through him, reminiscent of the first years after the jump. He doesn't really remember much else from that time, only certain photographic flashes like running through the empty streets for miles, or how stiff Luther's fingers were around the eye, or how his throat felt sandpapered from yelling. He digs his toes into the bathmat when he stands, trying to get some feeling back into his legs as he washes his hands again. 

"Who do you think it'll be tomorrow?" Because he has no doubt that he'll have to cycle through each of them, maybe even more than once. 

"No, I think they'd save her for closer to the end. Maybe it's gonna be Klaus," he thinks out loud as he turns off the light and finally heads to bed.

"Jesus, that's a morbid question. Nobody would be easier."

"Well that's because I was a mean little shit back then," he says, fluffing out the sheets, then turns to her abruptly. "Sure, but now I have enough life experience to back it up!"

Nobody speaks while he settles under the comforter until he grits out, "I know. I'm sorry too." One of the magazines Dolores found for him advised people never to go to sleep angry with their partner. He tries, he really does. "But we talked about this. I just need to align my interests with hers for a little bit."

"Well, until…" He pauses and glances at the door. When he turns back, Dolores is looking at him questioningly. "Until she's not the only option anymore," he finishes. He waits and smiles when she figures it out. A real one this time.

The hazy gray of dawn is starting to creep in through the windows. He motions to her before the blackout curtains can activate and whispers, "I'm going to need you to remember some equations for me, alright? Are you ready?"


End file.
